


He's back.

by WaitingForFreedom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apples and fairy tales, IOU, James Moriarty's back from the dead?, Myc's perspective, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's poisoned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:34:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1578671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitingForFreedom/pseuds/WaitingForFreedom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But it's impossible. He's /dead/.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's back.

A ping on my phone alerted me to a text, disturbing my meeting with the vile Charles Magnussen. I was almost glad for the distraction – Anthea, of course – though it concerned me greatly. Anthea knew not to text me, especially during a meeting, unless there was an emergency.

As Charles droned on about some newspaper achievement he had received, I discreetly checked my phone.

[Text] Sherlock poisoned. Emergency protocol activated. –A

“Well.” I stood up, rudely interrupting Charles as I smoothed out my suit, buttoning it. “This has been a waste of my valuable time, and I have been called away from something urgent.” With that, I took my leave. No need to show common courtesy to one who doesn’t even understand the meaning of “courtesy.” 

I walked briskly down the winding stairs, my helicopter waiting, already on the helipad and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Quickly climbing aboard, the pilot greeted me and took off. I watched in the rearview mirror as Appledore vanished into the distance.

It was only a ten minute flight, but that was sufficient time for my mind to wander, wondering just what Sherlock had done now. A name floated in my mind’s eye. Moriarty. But that was impossible. He was dead. He shot himself point-blank in the head. He was dead. So why did my thoughts keep circling back to him?

The helicopter touched down, and I stepped out. Anthea was immediately at my side, briefing me.

“Sir. Sherlock was found at 4:30 pm in his flat with profuse sweating, nausea, and a massive headache. Against his wishes, I moved him to this medical facility where he has been for the past hour. He has difficulty moving, speaking, and most importantly, breathing,” Anthea reported.

“Any ideas on the toxin?”

“Tetrodotoxin. Found in fish, though there were none at his flat. The poison was ingested and the only thing edible in his flat was a basket-full of apples.” The next few moments were passed in silence as we walked through the facility before stopping at an unmarked door. “In here, sir.”

I firmly pushed the door open, stepping inside to survey the scene. Sherlock was on the bed, appearing to be asleep, linked up to several machines with a tube down his throat. The rest of the room was bare, except for a folded rickety-looking plastic chair propped up against a wall. It’ll have to do. I unfolded it and set it by Sherlock’s bed before taking a seat.

“Sherlock.”

No response.

“Sherlock, how were you poisoned?”

He opened his eyes and I motioned for Anthea to supply him with pen and paper. 

‘Don’t know,’ he wrote, ‘Must have been a poisoned apple.’

I nodded. “Any other symptoms?”

‘Gradual paralysis.’

Oh. He wouldn’t have long, then, until the paralysis spread to his diaphragm, then heart.

‘Fairy tales.’

“Fairy tales? I don’t follow.”

A pitying look followed, as Sherlock picked up his pen again. Or rather, tried to. His fingers weren’t responsive. I let out a sigh of frustration. What on earth could ‘fairy tales’ mean?

Standing, I first ordered Anthea to collect as many children’s fairy tale books as she could, then turned to Sherlock, who had apparently fallen asleep again. With a worried glance, I left and headed to my office upstairs, where hopefully, Anthea was waiting with the books and we could figure out this riddle Sherlock had left us.

It didn’t take long to find the corresponding fairy tale. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, poisoned by her evil godmother.

The nagging sensation that Jim Moriarty was somehow behind this was still there. Only he would reference such a childish story. The red, poisoned apples, his obvious fascination with Sherlock… The clues were all there, evident, but Jim Moriarty was /dead/.

Or was he?

The next morning, a present arrived for Sherlock. It was shocking, in itself, but even more so because there were only five people with the knowledge of Sherlock’s exact location. Never-the-less, it was brought to his room.

Sherlock had miraculously survived through the night, and with the help of modern technology, the poison was now wearing off and he was increasingly improving.

When I entered the room, Sherlock was in the middle of opening the present – a small white box. Inside, instead of a get-well card or chocolates, there were two apples. On one was carved “I O U.” On the other, “NO MORE.” This was all I needed to confirm my suspicions. I didn’t know how he had done it, how he had survived, but the evidence in front of me spelled out a clear message.

James Moriarty was back.


End file.
